


Sweet Home Georgia

by montmorency



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:00:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montmorency/pseuds/montmorency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://i1253.photobucket.com/albums/hh584/moodwriter/Banners/montmorencybanner6_zpsb7cb40bf.jpg"></a><img/><br/><b>Summary:</b> When the zombie apocalypse of The Walking Dead universe hit, Tommy was driving across the country with his sister and her toddler to visit relatives in Florida. They only make it as far as Georgia.<br/><b>A/N:</b> I blame Fairfax_verde for haranguing me until I watched TWD and not long after… blam, I was a Daryl Dixon fan. Not long after that, I thought he’d be fun for Tommy. So there you have it.  Fairfax_verde has helped amazingly with pre-reading and ideas and guidance. Then the icing on the cake is Moodwriter’s gorgeous artwork. She understood from the first moment the mood of the fic. So she’s Moodartist as well as Moodwriter. <33333 to the both of you!</p><p><b>Link to art master post:</b> <a href="http://moodwriter.dreamwidth.org/23670.html">DW</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Home Georgia

PART 1

It’s quiet.

Too quiet?

Probably not. Quiet is a relative thing in this new world, this sorrowful life.

Daryl hears birdsong and wind rustling through dead leaves. What he doesn’t hear is the grotesque burbling, gnashing sound that the dead make.

In this new world, quiet is good.

There’s something, though. Like a can rolling along the cement floor many aisles over. It could be a squirrel (hello dinner!) or a dog or a raccoon. Midday, and this deserted, depleted Walmart is dim, sunshine struggling through dirty, broken skylights and the front doorway that lost its doors awhile back.

Daryl stands stock-still, alert. Behind him, Maggie and Glenn are motionless. Daryl signals with a raised hand, moving forward, silent as a panther stalking through the forest. Maggie and Glenn aren’t quite so silent. Daryl grimaces to himself. They’re learning, though; getting better. He’ll give them that.

He skirts a lopsided _$1.39 ltr Coke!_ display and moves from side aisle to side aisle, avoiding the wide main aisles, side-stepping the detritus covering the floor, crossing the store from Groceries to Tools. There’s the sound again, metallic, tinny.

Daryl raises his fist. They stop. He points at Glenn to go around the aisle to the left, Maggie to the right. He lifts his crossbow to eye level and moves forward, rounding the tall shelves until he sees into the next aisle.

What he sees there is a kid. The kid is skinny and young – grown-up but young – a white guy with brown hair and big eyes and a small pointed chin. It’s not something Daryl often, or ever, thinks about a fellow man, but the word “pretty” pops into his head. The kid has a handful of nails and a Ruger. The bag at his feet gapes to reveal diapers, of all things.

“Stay back!” the kid says, about as menacing as a newborn kitten. Although, give him credit, there’s that gun, pointed right at Daryl’s face.

“Easy there,” Daryl says softly, not lowering the crossbow, shuffling forward slowly. 

“Stop! I’m not kidding!”

Daryl halts. Glenn appears at the far end of the aisle, then Maggie peering over his shoulder. “Put the gun down, boy,” Daryl says.

Stubbornly, the kid doesn’t comply. He does look over his shoulder to see the reinforcements. Doesn’t change his mind.

“Get the fuck away from me. I didn’t do anything to you,” he says, kind of politely under the circumstances.

Daryl considers. They could let him go. The kid appears to be alone. He’s certainly not some big mean goober who’s gonna make trouble for Daryl’s people at the prison. Still, Daryl needs to know where this guy is bedding down and who else he might know. Who else is in the area. Now that the governor has moved along and the Woodbury folks have joined the prison gang, Rick wants to batten down and keep everyone safe from other psychopaths that could be living within a thirty-mile zone.

“Calm down, we ain’t done nothing to you either yet. All we want’s some details.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Daryl repeats. “What kind of question is that? Have you _noticed_ what’s going on around you?”

“I’ll leave and you can have everything else in the store.”

Everything else isn’t that much but it’s something. The shelves are sadly depleted, but they’re not empty. With the new retirement-age crowd at the prison, more food and supplies are needed than ever before. It’s a topic that’s been causing plenty of arguments between Rick and Hershel.

Daryl decides to go the friendly route. He lowers the crossbow. Maggie and Glenn still have his back, he figures. Their handguns are aimed at the kid.

“What’s your name?” Daryl asks.

“What’s yours?” The kid hasn’t lowered his gun.

“Daryl. What’s yours?”

“None of your fucking business, redneck.”

Daryl bridles. Hell, he was trying to be friendly. “You better watch your mouth, sunshine.”

The kid chews on his lower lip for a moment. “Tommy,” he says. “Can I go now?”

“Shit.” Daryl scowls. “You are something, you know that?”

He doesn’t really like being in charge. He likes knowing what his job is, being given an assignment, and then doing it. Get supplies. _I can do that._ Kill those walkers. _I can do that._ Escape from Woodbury. _I can do that._ Take down threats from psychos. _I can do that._

Decide what to do with a lone kid in the tool aisle of an abandoned Walmart somewhere in Georgia. _I don’t know how to do that._

One thing’s sure, Rick wouldn’t let the kid go. Rick would bring him back to the prison. Daryl is damn sure of that. So that’s what he’s going to do. It’s the kid’s own fault for being so stubborn and not answering questions. He could be anyone. He could be with a group of thugs who would like nothing more than to take over the secure prison.

Daryl sets the crossbow aside and walks towards Tommy.

“Stay back,” Tommy warns. The gun is wavering slightly in his grip.

“You won’t shoot me.”

“I might.”

Daryl reaches out and plucks the Ruger from Tommy’s hands and stuffs it into his waistband. 

Tommy’s shoulders slump.

“God damn it,” he says.

Daryl grabs a length of rope from a shelf. He motions to Glenn, tosses him the rope.

Tommy takes that moment to feint around Daryl and take off running, except Daryl didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, thank you. He has Tommy in a death grip in two seconds. While Glenn is tying Tommy’s wrists, the kid has the nerve to whine “Why?” a few more times. Daryl clamps a carabiner to the rope and locks it into a perforation in the metal shelf at shoulder level. 

Tommy kicks his shin, hard.

“Ow, you little fucker!” Daryl says, glaring.

Tommy glares back.

Maggie clears her throat. She’s still at the far end of the aisle. Daryl looks over. 

“Walkers,” says Maggie in a low, urgent voice, pointing to her right.

Daryl gets his crossbow and stealth-walks to the end near Maggie. Fuck, here they come, possibly two dozen. Where were they hiding? The stockroom in back? Customer Service? Daryl has time to shoot, re-load and shoot again while they’re still a few aisles away. Maggie’s a good shot with her rifle; she caps three more. Glenn is skirting the aisles from the other side to ambush. Good boy.

It’s hand-to-hand now and they go at it with precision, if not actual relish. Glenn wields a tire iron like a pro and Maggie uses a long knife for two more. 

When the last dead thing lies on the concrete floor, grunting its last, Daryl gives the two youngsters a good-job nod, cocks the crossbow and inserts a fresh arrow so it will be ready, and slings it behind him.

There’s a yell from the aisle.

“Shit,” Daryl swears, retracing the way to the aisle where they left Tommy. 

More walkers. Lots more walkers, coming from another direction. How did they miss all these? The gunshots must have brought them over. 

Two walkers nearly have Tommy in their grip, and that ain’t right. Daryl had him tied up so now he’s Daryl’s responsibility to save. 

Secured to the shelf, Tommy has nothing but feet to defend himself. He kicks and shoves furiously at the walkers, trying to keep his neck and head out of their grasp. In another moment he’ll get bitten –

Daryl hauls one walker off Tommy, and Glenn smashes the skull of the other. Blood spurts everywhere.

“We gotta get out of here!” Glenn yells. 

He’s right. There’s another dozen walkers on the way. Fuck.

Daryl flips open the carabiner and drags Tommy off the shelf, one hand firmly gripping the rope around Tommy’s wrists, the other driving his knife into a walker’s eye. Glenn scoops up Tommy’s carryall bag from the floor.

“This way!” Maggie hollers, waving. One look at the growing army of the dead and they aim for Maggie, running and dodging. 

Tommy runs awkwardly with his hands together, Daryl pulling on the rope. Tommy trips and loses his feet. Daryl yanks but another walker already has a hand on Tommy’s ankle.

“Get the fuck away, you fucker!” Tommy yells, kicking at the dead thing with his other foot. 

Daryl doesn’t dare let Tommy go or it’ll be all over. One-handed, he gets the crossbow over his shoulder and braces it the best he can. “Head down!” he barks at Tommy, who for once obeys. Daryl nails the walker in the forehead and stumbles backwards when Tommy is suddenly released from the walker’s grip.

Daryl hauls Tommy to his feet. There’s no time to cut the ropes carefully or retrieve that last arrow from the walker’s skull, because a few dozen more walkers are almost within reach, and anyhow Tommy is less bulky even than Maggie, so Daryl bends and hoists him in a fireman-carry over one shoulder, the crossbow over the other, and starts running hell for leather.

They burst out of the store and into sunshine, racing across the tarmac to their Hyundai. While Glenn gets in the driver’s seat and fires up the engine, Maggie holds the back door so that Daryl can fling Tommy inside. Maggie gets in back with Tommy and Daryl takes shotgun. They mow down a few more walkers on their way out of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

After the bright sunlight, the prison is dim and dank. Sort of like that Walmart. Daryl understands the need for safety but sometimes he hates this place. Rather be outdoors, hugging a tree or something. He snorts at his own thoughts.

Tommy, one hand cuffed to a radiator, sits on the floor and glares while Michonne goes through his shopping bag, which disgorges not just diapers but powdered milk, jars of peanut butter, kool-aid mix, off-brand granola bars, a hammer, two screwdrivers, nails, three locksets, and several hand towels.

Rick is stalking back and forth, like he always does. Fidgeting. Maggie and Glenn hover nearby, Carol and Hershel back a distance.

Michonne holds up the powdered milk as though it’s Exhibit A.

Tommy shrugs. “Protein.”

She holds up the diapers.

“They were out of paper towels?”

Rick stops his stalking and looks down his nose at Tommy. “You seem to think this is funny. It’s not. It’s life and death out there! You are in our territory and we can’t trust just any person who trots down the road.”

“I didn’t even know you existed two hours ago. Let me go and I’ll never bother you. Promise.”

“Not good enough. You know where we live now.”

“Whose fault is that? They brought me here.” Tommy looks over at the three who had kidnaped him. “They could’ve let me go, no harm, no foul.”

Daryl grunts and Glenn shifts his feet awkwardly, looking over at Maggie, who looks worried.

“They did right,” Rick says. “We can’t have you in our backyard without knowing more. Where did you come from? How many of you are there?”

“Just me.”

Rick raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think so.” His hand strays to the butt of his holstered pistol, like an unconscious reflex.

“Why would I tell you anything?” Tommy asks. “I was minding my own business when your goons grabbed me.”

Daryl leans into Tommy’s space and snarls, “What’d I tell you about that mouth?”

Michonne pulls Daryl back.

“Let it go, Daryl,” Rick says. 

“He’s got a point,” Carol says from farther back. “Why not take him back where you found him and leave him there?”

“You’re too trusting.” Rick looks back down at Tommy. “Until he talks, he stays in the cuffs.”

Carol takes a step forward. “Is that necessary? He hasn’t offered any violence.”

Daryl rubs at his still-aching shin with his foot. “He’s feistier’n he looks.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner is the usual blah mess. Beans and oats and Spam mashed together and warmed up. One of these fine days, Daryl is going to go out and get them some venison.

He sits down on the picnic table, his feet on the attached bench, and compliments Carol on her cooking. Mess or no, she tries her best to make this place like a home of some sort, God bless her.

“I’m sorry now I didn’t let him go,” Daryl tells her, taking a spoonful of stew.

“He does seem harmless.” 

“Probably is. But I think he’s got someone else somewhere.”

“A young child,” Carol agrees. Trust her to notice the diaper size. She’s awesome like that. “He’s taking care of someone he loves. Just like we do.”

Daryl nods. “Too late now. He’s seen where we live. I shouldn’t of done it.”

“You did what you thought best for our safety. It’s all we can do anymore. Every choice seems like a bad choice, as though there are no good choices left in the world.”

She fills another bowl and puts a spoon in it. 

“I got enough,” Daryl says, thinking it’s for him.

“For the prisoner,” she says. "He seems like a nice boy."

Daryl finishes his bowl and sets it on the table. He reaches for the filled bowl. “I’ll do it.” He's feeling guilty. If the shoe had been on the other foot, he would have kicked or beat up anyone trying to take him prisoner.

Tommy’s not in the mood for eating. He looks miserable, much of the fight gone out of him. Daryl sits down by him, cross-legged, back against the wall, and sets the bowl of food on the floor between them to wait until Tommy realizes it’s a good idea to get some food in him.

Daryl doesn’t get a lot of relaxation time, so he closes his eyes and simply listens to the sounds around him, his friends talking in groups here and there, getting to know the new people from Woodbury; kitchen items clanking, water being poured into cups. 

“Please let me go. I need to get back,” Tommy says quietly.

Softly, so as not to startle Tommy, as though he’s a forest animal, Daryl says, not opening his eyes, “Back where?”

“Not gonna tell you that.”

Daryl rolls his head to the side and opens his eyes. “Then you’re gonna stay right here.”

Tommy huffs, rubs at his eyes with his free hand. “I wasn’t hurting you.”

Daryl gives himself a good internal ass-whupping. He never was that smart. “I know,” he says quietly. “But we’ve had some bad luck with people living close by. Lost a lot of good people.”

Tommy picks up the bowl awkwardly, juggling it from one hand to another until he can finesse the handcuff situation, then grabs the spoon and takes a bite of stew. “Do I look like I could hurt you?” he says angrily, staring forward.

“Can’t afford to take chances.”

Tommy chews. “This stuff is awful.”

“I know,” Daryl says. “Don’t it say it too loud.”

Tommy chews some more. “You’re taking a chance with other lives you don’t know shit about.”

“You were taking that stuff to someone.”

“How is that your business?”

Daryl can’t disagree, so he shuts up.

Tommy focuses on eating. 

Carol comes over with a cup of water. She crouches down and, with a smile for Daryl and a kind look for Tommy, sets the cup down where Tommy can reach it.

“Thank you,” Tommy says, eyes down, spoon poised in mid-air, looking more wretched than ever.

“You’ve met Daryl, and I’m Carol,” she says.

Daryl snickers. “Poet and didn’t know it.”

Carol pats Daryl’s knee. “You leave us be awhile, Daryl. Go help with Judith or something.”

Daryl figures that’s best; Carol’s good with people. She’s really blossomed in the last few months, like a Cherokee rose, maybe. He rises smoothly and Carol takes his place on the floor by Tommy. Daryl crosses the open space and perches on the table near the others but he keeps checking back over his shoulder. 

“What are we going to do with all of them,” Glenn is saying. "Old ladies, babies, people with walkers - I mean _actual_ walkers like people use in old-age homes."

“You gonna throw them out?” Rick answers. “To be torn apart alive? You think I had a choice?”

“There’s no good choices left,” Daryl says, thinking of Carol’s words.

Rick nods at him. “Everything we do to protect our own, it might not be good for someone else. We have to protect our own first, no matter.”

“I want us to hold onto being human,” Maggie says. “I know you’re right, but isn’t that why we brought the people from Woodbury here?”

“Maggie’s right,” says Hershel. “Everything out there,” he gestures towards the windows, “is inhuman, even some of the humans. In here, we should act like people of conscience.”

“Tommy has a family somewhere, too,” Daryl says. 

“We can’t just let him go,” Rick insists.

Daryl looks across the large hallway, back to where Carol is sitting next to Tommy. Seems like she’s making headway with the kid. He’s talking to her, anyway, Daryl can see that. He turns back to the group. “Maybe we should give him a chance, hear his story.”

Maggie nods vigorously. “In the Walmart, we didn’t know who he was. We had to protect the prison. There were walkers, we didn’t have time to do anything but react. But now – maybe there are more people who need help. What if he is with some good people? People like Sasha and Tyreese.” Sasha smiles at her.

“Or criminals who will take everything we have,” Glenn interjects.

Hershel shrugs. “Surely it’s worth learning a little bit more about the boy.”

“No one’s going anywhere tonight,” Rick says, finality in his voice. “Let him sit and stew for a night and see if that’ll make him talk.” 

Rick’s recent declaration of democracy or no, a career of being in charge is hard to get rid of. The others appear willing to follow his lead and call it a night.

 

* * *

Tommy stays tied up. Carol brings him a blanket to lie down on. Before lights out, Tyreese, as a neutral third party who doesn’t piss off Tommy, unlocks him from the radiator and takes him down to the far end of the cell block to use the commode. That’s the prison population’s name for the cell that is used as a common restroom. Amazingly enough, the plumbing still works in the prison. No one knows how far away it gets flushed, or how clean the water from the spigots is, but they boil the drinking water and pray that the sewer system doesn’t back up and thank the good lord for a few amenities.

Daryl wakes up to the sound of something moving down on the floor below him. Moonlight from the dirty windows doesn’t illuminate much. It’s that kid, the chain attaching him to the radiator jiggling as he fidgets. Beyond that, the silence is complete other than light snoring sounds from one or two cells. 

Daryl snatches up his poncho and tiptoes down the metal stairs. Those stairs can clang like nobody’s business when he runs up or down, but Daryl knows how to be silent, how to stalk.

He crosses the floor and stops next to Tommy. 

“You awake?” he asks quietly.

“No, I’m dreaming of a big comfy bed with lots of blankets,” Tommy hisses. He sounds miserable. His thin arms are wrapped around himself.

Daryl spreads the poncho over Tommy.

“Oh, fuck you,” Tommy whispers, not even looking at Daryl. All the same he stops shivering, so Daryl counts that as a win.

Daryl checks the mug of water nearby; it’s still mostly full. He rises and looks around the silent cellblock. By the moon’s position he knows it’s Tyreese’s turn on watch. Checking the ever-present gun in his waistband, he stealth-walks across the block, through the first gate and into the antechamber, where he finds a vigilant Tyreese.

“All quiet,” Tyreese whispers.

Daryl nods. It would be a nice moment for a cigarette but he hasn’t got one on him. Hershel doesn’t permit smoking indoors anyway.

“Appreciate you folks letting Sasha and me join.”

Daryl nods again. “We need good people.” He snorts. “We need good fighters. Now that we got so many old folks we gotta look out for.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Daryl moves closer to the chained and bolted door into the tombs, listening, watchful. Just as he turns to go, a shriek from the inner cellblock pierces the air, followed by gunshots.

“What the fuck?” Daryl motions to Tyreese to stand guard.

“My sister’s in there!” Tyreese hisses.

Daryl gives the door to the tombs a hard look. It’s solidly chained. “Come on!” he says.

More gunshots ring out, and everyone is yelling. The cellblock is pandemonium. Daryl can’t believe his eyes – how did _walkers_ get in here? Looks like fifteen at least in the dimness. The far exit to the block – they’d always figured that was sealed for good, but the door is open, and more walkers pour through the opening.

“How?” Rick yells above the din. “How in tarnation? Where in hell did they come from?”

Carl is actually bagging the most walkers, but every able-bodied person is fighting the dead. Daryl’s crossbow is on the perch; he clangs his way up the stairs and snatches up the bow and rains hell down on the walkers. Even in the melee, he’s a great shot and never hits a human, although when the walkers line up right, sometimes he can get two with one shot.

Someone hollers his name – “Daryl!” – and he looks across the block where Tommy, still chained, tries to fend off two walkers with his feet and legs. A quick arrow takes care of one of them. No time to re-load; Daryl is down the stairs with a knife planted in the other walker’s skull before two seconds pass.

“You keep doing this to me, fucker,” Tommy snarls.

The fight behind them isn’t letting up. Rick’s and Glenn’s voices are shouting directions to the others and Daryl needs to be back in the fight. He grabs the chain that holds Tommy to the radiator, aims carefully, and shoots the cuff by the radiator pipe. He thrusts a hunting knife in Tommy’s hand.

“Come on!”

Tommy jumps into the midst of the fighting, fierce and unafraid. Daryl’s pretty impressed, when he has a spare moment for a thought other than how to get the next walker off Beth or Hershel or some tottering grandma.

It’s hellish, there’s blood and brains everywhere, the place is a reeking mess, and they lose two of the newbies but that’s it.

“Thirty-two,” Carl counts. “We got thirty-two walkers!”

The far exit is closed now, chained down with several locks.

“How?” Rick bellows, red in the face. “Who unlocked that door?” He turns in a circle, breathing hard, staring daggers at everyone but mostly at the new people and at Tyreese and Sasha and the woman who was the sole survivor of the Governor’s shooting spree.

“No,” says Tyreese. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with coming here to kill you, and you know I wouldn’t do this now. Not me and not Sasha.”

Ricks glowers darkly, turning his head slowly to stare at each and every one of the trembling newcomers, as though accusing them all. “I’ll find out. Believe you me, I will find you out, whoever you are.”

Daryl moves behind Rick’s shoulder and says quietly, “Not Tyreese. He wouldn’t have left his sister in there.”

Rick takes a deep breath. “We’ll see,” he tells Daryl. “Now where did that skinny kid with the tattoos go?”

Daryl turns one way and another. Rick is right. Tommy isn’t here any longer. “Aw, damn.”

“Go,” says Rick, who clearly isn’t moving from this spot until he can serve as judge, jury and maybe executioner of whoever did let in the walkers. 

Daryl shifts into hunter mode, taking the only other exit to the cellblock, the antechamber where Tyreese had been keeping watch before the attack. Tommy got out through here, going by the state of the busted lock. He can’t get out of the prison yard itself, though; Daryl spies him rattling at the chains and locks on the gate while several walkers observe with keen interest from the other side.

“Stop that!” Daryl says, pulling him back by the scruff of his neck.

Tommy crumbles to his knees in the dirt. “Just let me go, let me go,” he begs. The hunting knife drops from his limp hand.

Daryl crouches. “I can’t,” he says. Tommy won’t look up. Daryl looks around for a gun. Tommy doesn’t have one. How did he bust the lock of the antechamber? Daryl pushes that thought aside for now.

“You’re killing them,” Tommy says, low.

There’s nothing Daryl can say to that, because that’s true, in a way. “I’ll talk to Rick. Maybe we can help.”

“I don’t want your help. Just want to _leave_.”

“How far you think you’ll get out there?”

The commotion has brought ten or more walkers to the gate. They appear to be listening closely. It’s a weird illusion. Daryl shakes his head to clear that thought. He stands. “It’s cold out here.” 

Tommy says nothing for long moments. Then he holds out his hand and Daryl grabs it and hauls Tommy to his feet.

Back inside, Tyreese and Carl guard the entrance. They let Daryl and Tommy pass, then re-chain the gate and put on new padlocks. Rick has settled whatever he wanted to, so far. The new people are all in an adjacent cellblock, locked away from the core group. Sasha and Tyreese are still in with Rick’s group.

“Tomorrow we investigate,” Ricks says. “Chain him to the wall again,” he instructs Daryl.

Daryl takes watch, but even when it’s his turn to sleep, up on the perch, he tosses and turns and gets almost no rest. When bars of sun start to crawl down the walls, he joins Carol in the kitchen area, starting the coffee and setting out plates and bowls. 

“You’ll make someone a good husband,” Carol says quietly, smiling.

Daryl stifles what is close to a snicker. 

Rick joins them before everyone else has awoken. He accepts a cup of coffee from Daryl. 

“Rick,” Carol begins, “we need to let Tommy leave. He’s protecting someone, just like we are.”

“The only reason he’s not in lockdown with the Woodbury people,” Ricks says, “is he was chained up the whole time he’s been here, so I know he didn’t let those walkers in.”

“That’s right, he’s no threat to us. And there’s a child, I’m sure of that. Whoever he’s with, they’re not dangerous.”

Rick shakes his head. “How can we take that chance?”

“Sometimes we have to trust.”

Rick takes a long drink of coffee. He nods minutely. “Maybe,” he says.

They transfer Tommy’s chains to the picnic table and let him eat breakfast with everyone. He’s sullen, miserable, red-eyed. He probably got less sleep than Daryl did.

“You fuckers are as bad as the murderers and the zombies out there,” he says defiantly. 

“First off,” Ricks says, “you need to moderate your language around the ladies and the old folk.”

Maggie and Michonne roll their eyes.

“Fuck that,” says Tommy. “You don’t like it? Let me leave. I won’t bother you again.”

“Can’t do that,” Rick continues. “Not unless you tell us where you are holing up, and who’s with you.”

“No way. You people are armed to the teeth and you kidnaped me. I’m not leading you to, uh.” He stops dead.

“We are good people!” Rick insists. “The fact that you remain alive attests to that.”

“So take the cuffs off!”

“Not until you talk,” Rick hisses. 

“Stale-fucking-mate,” says Tommy.

Daryl shuffles his feet. “I’ll take him where he’s from, make sure it’s no danger to us.”

Tommy glowers at him.

“He’s more trouble’n he’s worth,” Daryl argues to Rick. 

“Rick, you said from now on we vote,” Hershel adds. “I vote Daryl and some others take Tommy and find out the lay of the land. If the team decides it’s safe, then they leave him with his people, whoever that is.”

Rick glowers, but he doesn’t deny the truth of that. “Who agrees?”

Enough hands go up. The vote is clear. If what Rick said about democracy was serious, this is its first real trial.

“Daryl, Michonne, Tyreese,” Ricks says testily. “At the first sign of being played, you take him out, you got that?”

Daryl gives a little nod.

“You take him _out_.”

 

* * *

Daryl keeps Tommy on a leash the whole time, hands cuffed, tied to a long rope that Daryl loops around his own forearm as they occupy the rear seat of a king-cab truck. Michonne drives, Tyreese rides shotgun. They skirt the Walmart, giving it a wide berth, then follow Tommy’s instructions as they drive along a road, passing the occasional empty car. They wind up in an upscale neighborhood, professional landscaping now grown wild and weedy. Tommy instructs them to park; he wants to park well away and walk in a fair distance. Caution is smart. Outside the truck, he tries to convince them again to simply release him.

“Can’t do it,” Daryl says. “You know where we live. Now we gotta know where you live.”

“Mutual assured destruction,” Michonne offers, deadpan.

Tommy grimaces. “Okay, don’t make a racket. It’s about a mile.”

At the end of a cul-de-sac littered with walker corpses, if the living dead can be said to be corpses, a shuttered house behind overgrown palmettos sits quietly in the sun. Tommy leads them around the side, then the back, watching for walkers the whole way, stepping over the corpses. “We leave them here, I think it disguises us from them,” he whispers. 

Michonne nods. She knows.

At the back door of the house, he taps on the wall. “Stay out here,” he says.

“No way,” Daryl rejoins, crossbrow out and ready. Michonne’s katana is drawn, Tyreese’s rifle at the ready.

“You’ll scare them,” Tommy insists.

“Scare who?”

Tommy sighs. “Fuck you. You’ll see. You’ll feel like an idiot when you see.”

A woman’s face appears in the door’s half-window, then disappears. Tommy taps again. “It’s okay, Lisa, let me in.”

“Who are those people?” comes a voice through the door, frightened.

“Open up, it’s okay.”

The door locks click and the door opens a hair. “Where have you been?” she asks.

“Meeting new friends,” Tommy says drily. 

The door opens wider and they file in. Lisa closes the door and locks it, eyes wide with fright. Tommy holds out his hands to Daryl. “Now can you take these off?” Daryl figures the situation is safe, sets aside the bow and fumbles in his pocket for the key to the cuffs.

Once freed, Tommy grabs Lisa in a huge bear-hug. “They won’t hurt you,” he tells her.

Daryl beckons to Tyreese. “We’re going to check out the house,” he says.

“Wait.” Lisa looks nervously at Tommy. Her eyes cut to the door into the next room.

“Who’s in there?” Daryl asks, wary.

A small, dark-haired child sidles around the edge of the doorway. Tommy drops to his knees and the child runs across the floor and into his arms. 

“Uncle Tommy!” she squeals. He just holds her to him for a long while.

Daryl waves Michonne and Tyreese forward; the two of them shuffle, weapons first, into the rest of the house. On the way out of the kitchen, Michonne shrugs Tommy’s carryall off her shoulder and drops it on the counter.

Tommy sits down on the floor, the little girl in his grip. “No one else here. Just us.”

Lisa goes to her knees. “I thought you were dead. When you didn’t come back. Oh, Tommy!” She starts to sob, relieved or still frightened, could be either.

Daryl feels like total shit. Look what he did to these decent people. The world has turned them all cruel, selfish and thoughtless, him included.

Lisa cries until the child moves into her arms. “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry.”

Daryl looks at Tommy, indicates Lisa. “You together?”

Tommy shakes his head. “My sister and my niece.”

After Michonne and Tyreese discover that the house is empty of other living creatures larger than a fly, they leave the weapons on a high shelf out of the child’s reach and Lisa makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. They sit in the family room together. It’s a nice house with comfortable furniture gathered around a 50-inch television that will never work again. The house shows no sign of ever having been looted or desecrated. All the windows are boarded halfway up, so that anyone standing outside can’t see in, but plenty of sunshine still gets into the house.

The little girl is fascinated by all the new people, especially Tyreese. In spite of many smiles from him, she remains shy for a long while.

“We were driving across the country to visit some of Lisa’s husband’s relatives in Florida,” Tommy says. “We got this far when all the shit went down. Nick’s still in Los Angeles. We hope.” He looks guiltily at Lisa. “We don’t know anything. There were a few texts from him, same shit was going on there, and then service cut off. Forever.”

Lisa rubs at her eyes. “I just keep hoping.”

“Been living here since then?” asks Tyreese, sympathy in his tone.

“No,” Tommy answers. “At first we were moving all the time in the car. Scrounging for food and steering clear of gangs of thugs.”

Michonne looks knowingly at him. “Happened to all of us like that.”

“We found this place about eight months ago and decided to settle in. Bridget needs somewhere to grow up. Worst part is finding supplies.” Tommy looks straight at Daryl. “You can get kidnaped that way.”

Daryl flinches inwardly and pretends to look out the window. Tommy’s right. Daryl feels very stupid now that he knows who Tommy was holing up with – a scared woman and her young child. “Was protecting _my_ own,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” says Tommy. For the first time, his voice isn’t sarcastic or unhappy or mean. “I get it. I hated it, but I get it.”

“All’s well that ends well,” Tyreese adds. 

Everyone glares at him.

“Nothing’s over yet, dude,” Tommy says. But he smiles, because Bridget has found her way next to Tyreese, like a tyke who’s found a really big teddy bear.

It’s strangely ordinary, like having lunch with friends back before the shit went down. The room they’re in is the cleanest thing Daryl’s seen in months. Sunlight filters into the room through leafy trees. Birds chirp and sing. 

They even start a normal-sounding conversation. Tyreese talks about his sister with Lisa. They find out that Bridget is nearly three years old. The house is full of children’s books, and Lisa reads to her nightly. Tyreese and Michonne tell her about Judith back in the prison.

Tommy gets up and goes off to the kitchen. After a few minutes, Daryl follows, figuring he can be helpful in some way. Or check up on Tommy. It’s hard to throw off paranoia in this new world. He leans against the kitchen door jamb, watching Tommy’s back as he cleans the dishes in the sink.

Daryl feels drawn to Tommy. Everything about him is appealing to Daryl, from his fierce loyalty to his resilience in the face of danger to his tiny ass and tattoo-covered arms. He wonders who Tommy was in the life before. 

“You got a nice place here,” he says.

Tommy jumps. A dish clatters in the sink. “Jesus, you fucking startled me.” He turns around to face Daryl, leaning against the countertop, soapy hands gripping the tiles behind him. “Does that mean you will leave us in peace?”

Willfully shoving aside the thought that he somehow noticed another man’s ass, Daryl focuses on the longbow resting against the wall near the door to the outside. A handful of arrows lies across the top of the refrigerator. “Yours?”

Tommy shrugs. “Got it at that Walmart. I’ve been practicing.”

“Longbow ain’t that great for killing walkers, specially from a distance. I could teach you how to use a crossbow. It’s got a lot more power. For going through skulls, you know.”

“One thing at a time,” Tommy says. “Never fired a gun before, either, back in the day.”

“Yeah, well, I did,” Daryl says. “Not people, just a deer now and then. Food. Life sure used to be simpler.” He nods at Tommy’s sleeve of horror ink. “Kind of ironic, aren’t those? Considering you’re living in a horror flick now?”

Tommy snorts. “If it was a horror flick, it would be over in ninety minutes.”

Daryl folds his arms across his chest, feeling awkward. He feels that way a lot around all these decent people. The people who grew up with parents who loved them, who have sweethearts and children and grandparents and jobs. “We could take you – all of you – to the prison.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Safer there.”

“Safer?” Tommy laughs, no humor in his voice. “I was there less than twenty-four hours and zombies invaded the place.”

Score. Daryl chews his lower lip, eyes on the floor. “You can’t live without people, not anymore.”

Tommy scrubs at a plate. “It’s not ideal here. Nothing is. We have to raise Bridget the way we think is best.”

“There’s other children at the prison. Better for her to have other kids around, yeah?”

Tommy turns around to face the sink again. “We have what we need here.”

There’s not much to say to that. Daryl felt that way once. It’s easy enough to understand, seeing this nice little cocoon that Tommy and his sister have made for Bridget. It’s way more normal than the prison. If anything can ever be said to be normal in this messed-up world.

“Stay for dinner if you want,” Tommy offers.

Daryl nods even though Tommy isn’t looking. He returns to the family room, where Bridget is now happily settled in Tyreese’s lap. Yep, Tyreese has that teddy bear thing going on.

“My sister’s going to like you,” Tyreese tells Bridget in a stage whisper. “You and your mom both.”

Daryl looks over his shoulder. Tommy stands in the doorway, frowning.

 

* * *

Lisa corners Daryl later, as dusk falls outside. “Thank you for bringing him back to us.” She keeps her voice soft, quiet.

Daryl nods, embarrassed as always by comments like these. He doesn’t deserve thanks; he’s just making up for years of acting like an asshole.

Lisa hesitates. “Tommy wants us to stay here.”

“I know.”

“He thinks it’s safer.”

“He might be right.”

Lisa chews on her lip. “It’s Bridget’s bedtime. She doesn’t get to see people anymore. Would you…?” She holds out a child’s picture book. “It’s her favorite.”

Who’s gonna say no to that? All the same, Daryl feels like a big galumphing fool as he sits on the edge of the small bed, paging through a child’s book, while Bridget, tucked under the covers, watches him intently.

“Stellaluna,” Daryl announces.

“Starmoon,” Bridget says very seriously. “She’s a _bat_.”

“Huh.” Daryl opens the first page. Good thing the print is so big because all’s he got for lighting is a small candle. He clears his throat. He takes a deep breath. Finally he starts to read.

It’s dark outside the little circle of light, safe and comfortable within. Bridget hangs on every word, her eyes watching Daryl as he reads. In the hall doorway, Lisa watches with a fond smile.

Daryl becomes engrossed in the story. There are bats and birds outside still. Humans may be having a hard time out there, but the world is still beautiful, still full of astounding things like mammals that can fly, and little girls who are still alive because the ones who love her give their lives to protecting her.

“ _How can we be so different and feel so much alike? mused Flitter_ ,” he reads. 

“Flitter,” Bridget says softly, her eyelids growing heavy.

“ _And how can we feel so different and be so much alike? wondered Pip. I think this is quite a mystery, Flap chirped. I agree, said Stellaluna, but we’re friends. And that’s a fact._ ”

He looks over and sees Bridget’s dark hair on the pillow, her eyes closed and her breathing quiet and steady. He looks up to Lisa, who motions to him to come away.

Downstairs the prison contingent is packing up. Lisa looks like she wants to give out some hugs but isn’t sure if that’s kosher with the warrior types. In the end her arms drop and she backs away. 

Daryl wonders if she’s ever had to kill a walker, or if Tommy has completely spared her from that. He leans close to Tommy, keeping his voice low. One last time. “You sure?” 

Tommy shakes his head.

“If you change your minds, you know where to find us,” Michonne says to Lisa, hoisting her katana sheath over her shoulders. 

They sneak outdoors, ever mindful of walkers that could be listening in the shadows. Or even human filth like the Governor. Who even knows where that sumbitch is these days? Could be anywhere. Could be in the next bush over.

* * *

It doesn’t sit right with Daryl to have left Tommy and Lisa and Bridget alone in that house, miles from the safety of the prison. Because the prison is the safest place around even if it’s not perfect.

It doesn’t sit right with Rick, either, for other reasons having to do with distrusting anybody and everybody he hasn’t known for at least six months, but Rick’s up to his ears in trying to smoke out the traitor. The Woodbury people, minus Sasha and Tyreese, are still locked down in the other cellblock. Rick and Hershel have been interrogating the Woodburyians, singly and in groups, playing bad cop and good cop. They have a good idea by now who it was, not surprisingly one of the younger men, although there are few of those. He’s in a solitary cell by the time Daryl and company return.

The problem with all the new people, few of whom are ready to be fighters or foragers, is that they need food and supplies. Way more food and supplies than were needed before.

“Farming,” Hershel says at a meeting of the core group. “We have to get started on that now. Takes time for crops to grow.”

“All the supermarkets within a twenty-mile radius are pretty much stripped,” Maggie says. “If we stay here at the prison, how far do we have to go for supplies? Are we going to find them?”

Rick points at Tyreese. “Woodbury has supplies still, am I right?”

Tyreese nods. “Less someone’s been there since.”

“You, Glenn, Maggie – can you take that bus? Load it up. Everything you find. Food. Weapons. Seeds. Tools. Fertilizer.”

Tyreese nods again. “I know where most of the stuff is stowed.”

“But if others have already taken over the town, keep yourselves safe first. You got me?”

“We’re good,” Glenn says. “We can handle this.”

“Sasha can help,” Tyreese offers.

“Sasha stays here,” Rick commands. Trust is something that is earned bit by bit. Tyreese understands and nods a final time; follows Maggie and Glenn away to the stash of weapons.

Daryl scratches his jaw, looks at Hershel and Rick. “We need to clear the area between the fences again.”

“It’s got to be done,” Hershel agrees.

“We’ll put together a plan of attack,” Rick says, “soon as they get back. This is a job for the whole team.”

Daryl spends the evening waiting for the return of the group that went to Woodbury. He sits down by Carl, who holds Judith on his lap and feeds her from a bottle. Daryl touches the baby’s hand and the tiny fingers wrap around his pinkie and grip tightly.

“Tommy has a little niece,” Daryl says. “About three years old only.”

“Yeah?” Carl looks up at him. “They didn’t want to come?”

Daryl shrugs. “Tommy doesn’t think they’d be safe.”

Carl looks down at Judith, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m going to take care of Judith no matter what.”

Daryl sighs. “I think that’s what Tommy is doing with Bridget.”

“It would be nice to have more kids here. They could play together.”

Daryl nods. “So could you.”

“I’m not a kid,” Carl reminds him.

Sure would be nice, Daryl thinks. More kids, more laughing and playing. More mouths to feed, but also more hope for the future. He studies the fingers holding his. So tiny but perfect. Vulnerable, too, but what a strong little grip Judith has. She would die if she were left on her own now, but she will grow into a girl who can take care of herself, the same as Carl does. _How can we feel so different, yet be so much alike?_

* * *

Clearing out the middle fields of walkers is easier than the first time around. That’s because they’ve done it before and they’re a team now, a well-oiled fighting force. First they have to block the gate that the Governor’s men destroyed with the Woodbury bus. After clearing the area and burning the corpses, they have to devise a new gate that’s simpler and faster to move than always firing up the bus and driving it a few feet this way or that. 

No more internal attacks transpire, making them think Rick pegged the right traitor. They argue every few days about whether to kill him or what, but they’ve gone down the bad road before and it’s not them. It can’t be them. It’s another mouth to feed, one that produces no labor, but that’s the price of calling themselves human.

Hershel and Maggie are the lead farmers, nurturing young crops and directing the work of those who can wield a hoe or rake. There's plenty of easy labor that even some of the older or infirm Woodbury people can do, as well as back-breaking work turning up the soil. Determination goes a long way, and Hershel's got a lot of it and to spare. He encourages the others to work harder than they thought they could.

"I'm a hunter-gatherer," Daryl says, but he's joshing and he is better with a hoe than anyone else. When he's not doing that, he puts together a detail to find and clean empty barrels and turn them into cisterns for when rains start to fall.

The leaves turn color and drop to the ground; the weather gets colder. There’s not much to burn at the prison, but Woodbury had provided a number of down comforters, blankets and pillows. 

Could be worse.

Having the walkers lots farther away once again is a nice side benefit. It’s hard to hear them now. Life isn’t exactly normal, but it’s getting into a routine that works for the people at the prison. The Woodbury folks are blending well enough with the core group.

One cloudy day Daryl stands outside, surveying the distant woods with a pair of high-powered binoculars. One of the guard towers has been partially repaired after the attack of the Governor’s people, so Sasha and Maggie are keeping watch from behind a jury-rigged barrier.

An arrow whistles past Daryl’s ear and embeds itself in the dirt behind his feet. 

“What the hell?” Daryl falls into a crouch, handgun out. He checks the trajectory of the arrow based on where it landed and when he heard the whistling air. It must have come from the woods a long way off, shot high in the air and making a parabolic arc to land inside the prison gates.

Maggie shuffles up beside him, keeping a low profile. “Can you see anything?” she hisses. “Where did it come from?”

Daryl points with the binoculars, then raises them to his eyes again. He can’t see anything but deep green woods.

Nothing more comes their way. They wait.

“Daryl,” Maggie says.

“Yeah?”

“There’s a note.”

“A what?” Daryl lowers the binoculars and looks around. Seems like a piece of paper is curled around the shaft and taped to it.

Gingerly Maggie plucks the arrow from the dirt and picks at the tape until she frees the paper. Unwrapping it, staring from the paper to Daryl with wide-open eyes, she spreads it out.

_HELP_

_T_

That’s all it says. It’s enough for Daryl. He motions to Glenn, who is hunkered behind a brick wall. “It’s Tommy,” Daryl says. “No, don’t move! Not till I say.”

A bullet zings against a metal locker.

“Damn!” Glenn stays where he is.

More shots ping around the yard, while the giveaway pop-pop-pop of an automatic rifle sounds from the woods.

Daryl determines that the bullets are coming from a different direction than the arrow. Daryl shoves at Maggie’s shoulder. “Go!”

He lays down covering fire while she scuttles to Glenn’s position. Once she’s safe, Glenn covers while Daryl makes a run for safety, scooting in next to them.

The prison is coming to life, others pouring forth with rifles and shotguns, taking sheltered positions. Rick joins the three of them behind the brick wall.

“What happened?”

“People,” Glenn says. “No idea who.”

“Tommy’s out there,” Daryl adds.

Rick stares. “Tommy? That skinny guy with the earrings? Why would he attack us?”

Daryl shakes his head hard. “Not Tommy. Whoever’s shooting at us, I think they’re also after Tommy, and maybe the sister and the little girl.”

Rick looks puzzled. Maggie waves the paper at him and he snatches it up. “Okay,” he says. “What’s the layout?”

Daryl briefs him. The arrow came from the northeast, the gunfire is still coming from the south.

“I got an idea,” says Glenn. “You know that back exit, where it’s all swampy?”

Rick leans out, takes a shot, and leans back behind the shelter. “What about it.”

“Glenn’s right,” Daryl says.

“I’ll go,” says Maggie.

“You stay here,” Glenn immediately says, holding an arm out to keep Maggie back. 

“Both of you stay,” Daryl scoffs. “I want Rick or Tyreese. What if we gotta carry someone?”

Glenn rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Tommy can walk on his own.”

“Talking ‘bout the little girl, you dork.”

Maggie jiggles impatiently. “I’ll get Tyreese, stay here.” She slinks away, out of the sight of the shooters.

The prison crew continues an exchange of gunfire with the unseen attackers. Tyreese shows up at Daryl’s shoulder. They whisper together. It’s going to be hard to get outside the gate safely but not impossible. Several weeks back, Glenn came up with a plan to exit the compound that’s not in full view of the prison yard. It’s out the back, where the fence is higher than usual with three layers, the two closest to the prison padlocked. Daryl and Rick have the only keys. Tyreese follows Daryl through the two gates – which Daryl leaves unlocked for a quick return – and then through a rent in the fence, weaving the broken links back into place with the wire that’s there for the purpose, but loosely, again with an eye to quick re-entry. On this side of the prison, there’s a swamp that’s nearly impassible, but they’ve buried rocks strategically. Both guys know the way. By the time they get to the woods, Daryl aims for the location of the arrow shot.

It’s wild going, especially since they don’t want to holler out. The attackers might hear, for one thing; walkers for another. They see a lone walker through the trees, wandering aimlessly. Daryl stalks through the trees, gritting his teeth over the racket Tyreese is making, stumbling through the underbrush. To be fair, Tyreese isn’t that bad. He’s spent months in the woods by now. But a lifetime of hunting and stalking makes Daryl the perfect tracker.

Random gunshots are still audible on the other side of the prison clearing. 

“Hope our people are okay,” Tyreese whispers.

Daryl nods. They need to get back, fast. 

“Think it’s the Governor?”

“Who knows?” He stops and Tyreese stops.

They hear a child’s cry, muffled quickly.

Daryl moves implacably towards the sound, Tyreese rustling the leaves on the forest floor in his wake. Daryl motions for Tyreese to hold back. Daryl moves forward, crossbow ready, finger on the trigger. The good thing is, a long time back Daryl learned not to be trigger-happy. If it’s Tommy and his sister and the little girl, Daryl won’t jump the gun, so to speak. Better to be ready, though. 

Tommy pops up from a snarl of undergrowth. “Daryl!” he hisses.

“Quiet!” Daryl hisses back. “You all there? You okay?”

Tommy nods. Incongruously, he’s holding a long bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

“Practicing, huh?” Daryl says quietly. “Good goin’.”

Lisa is crouched in the undergrowth, Bridget wrapped tightly in her arms, one hand hovering near the girl’s mouth to quiet her if need be. Both of them look very frightened yet they brighten at seeing two familiar faces.

“You got any idea who’s firing on us over there?”

Tommy nods his head. “Sorry about that. Some assholes found our house. It wasn’t easy getting out. Thought they would just take it and leave us alone if we left the house to them but nope.”

“Guess they saw us in the prison yard,” Daryl says over his shoulder to Tyreese. 

Tyreese nods, leans over to touch Bridget’s hand. “We’re gonna get you out of here, honey.”

“Thank you,” Lisa tells him, heartfelt, near tears. 

“Can you carry her?” Daryl asks, indicating Bridget. “Best if Tyreese can hold onto his weapon.”

Lisa nods, kisses Bridget’s hair. “I’ve got her.”

“Try to be quiet,” Daryl says, fruitlessly.

They make it without incident to the edge of the swamp. Daryl points out the partially submerged stepping stones that have about an inch of water over them. 

Lisa shakes her head. “I can’t!” She stands at the edge, petrified.

“Come on,” Daryl urges. He steps on the first stone and then the next, shifts the drawn crossbow to his left hand and reaches out with his right. “It’s a little slippery but I’m right here.”

“Aw fuck.” Tommy points to a herd of walkers heading their way, some already in the swamp, making better time than seems reasonable for the slow-moving creatures. When one falls into the water and out of sight, another scrambles over the body.

“Damn,” Tyreese says, aiming the rifle and then lowering it. They don’t want to create noise and attract the bad guys who are still peppering the other side of the prison with bullets.

Tommy pulls the bow off his back and nocks an arrow. “Go on, Lise, it’ll be okay.”

“I can’t,” she says, sobbing quietly.

“You can. For Bridget.”

Lisa sniffles. She hoists Bridget higher on her shoulder so she can reach out for Daryl’s waiting hand. “Hold on tight, baby.” Bridget’s arms are clamped around Lisa’s neck.

The closest walkers are way too close, even though Daryl pulls Lisa from one stone to the next as swiftly as possible. Daryl gets one in the chest with the crossbow. Not in the best spot to aim, but the walker falls into the swampy water.

Tommy raises the long bow and shoots the other walker cleanly through its open mouth.

“Go!” Tyreese tells him. “I’m right behind you.”

Tommy follows in Daryl’s footsteps, crowded behind by Tyreese, until they’re on the solid strip of ground running along the fence. Sound doesn’t matter anymore – the attackers are too far away and couldn’t get to this side of the prison fast enough – so Tyreese raises the rifle and commences shooting walkers. Tommy takes over pushing Lisa forward while Daryl hauls furiously at the wire loosely holding the break in the fence together. Lisa grasps the chain-link so she won’t fall into the water.

A momentary glance shows a walker right behind Tommy, reaching for him. Daryl roars and leaps, unsheathing his hunting knife in a smooth action, nailing it precisely. Everything is mayhem – Tyreese shooting, walkers coming out of nowhere with gnashing jaws, the little girl shrieking, and now wild shots from the side, and men shouting far off. 

Daryl goes for another walker that threatens Tommy

“Daryl, no!” Tommy yells, his own knife drawn. “Get Lisa and Bridget!”

Daryl swings around, focusing like a laser on the mother and daughter. A walker has its vile hand on Bridget’s ankle. No way. No goddamn way. Daryl’s on that thing before another second has passed, hacking off the hand and then planting his foot on the walker’s midsection and shoving the unholy thing into the water. He puts the knife in his teeth and uses the freed hand to yank out the last piece of wire and hold open the fence. He grunts at Lisa urgently and she clambers inside with Bridget.

Only then does Daryl have a moment to hope Tommy didn’t need him. He shouldn’t have worried: Tommy’s right there, throwing the bow and quiver inside and following. Tyreese backs towards Daryl, mowing down another walker. He holds the fence so that Daryl can squeeze in, then follows and does a piss-poor job of wiring the fence back together. Later.

Instead they make it through the gates, which Tyreese padlocks behind them. Miraculously, all five of them are inside the compound and all the walkers are still outside, grabbing at the fence, trying to reach through.

Lisa crumples to the ground, crying again, holding Bridget like she’ll never let go. Tommy kneels and hugs them both. “We’re okay,” he says. “We made it.”

He gets up and, to Daryl’s complete surprise, hurls himself at Daryl, grabbing him around the midsection and squeezing fiercely.

“Thank you,” Tommy says fervently, his face scrunched against Daryl’s blood-soaked shirt. “Thank you, thank you.”

Daryl doesn’t have a clue what to do with his hands. Hug back? He’s not used to this kind of behavior. No one hugs him. He’s the not that person that people hug. Just as well right now, maybe, since he has a crossbow in one hand and a huge bloody knife in the other.

A bullet pings against a downspout on the prison wall.

“We gotta go!” Tyreese says. “Get inside! They’ve come around to this side.”

The warmth of Tommy’s scrawny body is suddenly gone. Daryl kind of misses it, but no time for that. Somehow they all get inside and slam the thick metal door closed and locked. Daryl leans back against the door and breathes in. The air is dank but it smells like heaven.

 

TO BE CONTINUED

 

[](http://i1253.photobucket.com/albums/hh584/moodwriter/Banners/montmorency_divider2_zps302ee4bf.jpg)


End file.
